A High Stakes Game
by R.C.C
Summary: Michael walks out back of his house to find Trevor and Amanda in a tennis match where the winner gets to hold the title of Mikey's best friend. (One-Shot. Rated for Language)


A shriek, gunfire, and shouted curses woke Michael. He jolted upright from the couch, whipping his pistol out from it's concealed holster at his back, "Wha - huh - who's there?!" he demanded, his speech mildly slurred with sleep. His reflection glared back at him from the black screen of the television, but he distinctly remembered falling asleep with it on. Amanda? Must have been Amanda. But no one else was in the living room. A quick glance to the kitchen revealed it too was deserted. He spun around to face the front door but saw no one in the foyer.

_RATATATATATTATT._ Michael ducked and pressed flat against the wall instinctively as gun fire echoed through the house again. He berated himself and then forcibly closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It was over. They'd gotten rid of everybody that would have been a problem: Steve Haines, Devin Weston. Well there was Madrazo but… they'd made their peace with him, right? The longer he thought about it, more names of people who wanted him dead came to mind. He swallowed, his mouth dry, when another voice ran out through the house.

"How do you like that, cocksuckers! Suck my dick!" The taunt came from upstairs.

"God _damn it,_ Jimmy," Michael spat out the words, holstering his pistol, and standing up straight. "Fuck." He walked into the kitchen and grabbed the bottle of whiskey sitting on the island counter top waiting for him.

"Yea, you want some? Yea, uh, uh!"

Michael poured himself a generous glass as Jimmy's vulgarities and that _game's_ sound effects echoed down the stairs. He exhaled, and shook his head slightly, bringing the glass up to his lips, only to remember a sound he thought he heard when he was so rudely awoken. A shout that most definitely had not been Jimmy, and one he didn't think came from the game. He put the glass back down on the counter, still full, and made his way to the foyer. He paused, angling to better hear any movement upstairs, but Jimmy's _Righetous Slaughter_ dominated the air.

"You're hearing things, fat old fucker," Michael said to himself. He went up the stairs anyway, taking them two at a time. He gave the tiniest of knocks, and peered into Tracey's room. She sat on her bed, reading, _reading_, for God's sake. One of the two dozen prep books she and Amanda had come back with after he'd dropped them off on a shopping trip. Better to not question lest she stop.

He moved on to the source of all the noise in the house: Jimmy's door was wide open and his dark room flashed with the simulated muzzle fire and explosions from the TV. Michael didn't even bother knocking, instead he just stood in the door, staring. He opened his mouth to say something a few times, his son completely unaware of his presence. Instead he just grabbed the door knob, turned back around, and shut the door behind him. He paused for a moment, his hand still on the door knob. Nope. He still couldn't hear himself think. But he wasn't sure if that was the video game's or his own damn fault.

He continued across the hallway and pushed open the door to the bedroom that he and Amanda shared. Empty. Not entirely surprising. It was barely evening. After a cursory check of the closet, he went to leave the room when he heard the sound he almost forgot again. A shout. Definitely Amanda's shout. He spun around, looking left, looking right. She wasn't here obviously, so where was the sound coming from. She shouted again. Far enough away to be faint, but loud enough for him to recognize. At least she didn't sound panicked. More… angry? Frustrated. He knew what _that_ sounded like, that's for sure. And again.

Aha. It dawned on him and he went to the window, put an ear against it and waited. Again! Tennis. She's playing fucking tennis. Of course, Mikey, he thought to himself, what else would she be doing. Nope, never mind. Don't answer that.

He jogged down the stairs to investigate. The last time she'd played tennis on the home court with someone other than himself or the kids wasn't one he was about ready for her to repeat. But she wouldn't. Not now, not after they'd actually started getting along as a semi-functional family. He pushed through the french doors, holding his breath. Not now that he actually had a reasonable job (as a movie producer even!), now that Tracey was seriously considering college, and Jimmy was actually looking for employment. He almost stumbled down the brick spiraling steps as he neared the court. Not now that Amanda and he were actually _sharing_ a bed instead of sleeping as close to their respective edges as possible. Not now. She _wouldn't_, right?

He froze.

"Haha! Losers lose!" The crude, boisterous voice drawled.

"Ugh! I'm better than this," Amanda cried, swinging her tennis racket, almost hitting the ground.

Michael found himself completely unable to move, his mouth agape and his eyes blinking.

"Mikey!" Trevor called, pointing at Michael with both free hand and racket. "We were just talking about you. And doing single combat for the honor of your friendship." Trevor slashed with his racket a few times at the air in distinctly non-tennis like maneuvers. "Or well, something like that. With less honor and for whatever you call that thing you do, where you lure someone into a false sense of warm fuzzies and then _stab them in the back," _Trevor exclaimed, before leaning forward, cupping a hand to his mouth conspiratorially, "The thing before the stabby stabby."

Michael managed to close his mouth. Trevor was… wearing a sweatband? And shorts that were, well, rather short. And the bright colors seemed more vibrant at odds with the sallow skin of his best friend the psychopath.

"Michael," Amanda said, putting a palm to her forehead. "I don't even… I just," she stopped, looked at Trevor who thrust his chest forward eagerly, causing her to look back at Michael hastily, "I need a drink."

Michael finally recovered enough to speak, "You and me both."

"For the record, I won," Trevor said, as Amanda walked past Michael towards the house. Michael followed her closely, moving to put a hand on the small of her back as she retreated. Trevor didn't seem to notice, or rather, didn't seem to care, as he came up Michael's other side and draped a sweaty arm over his shoulder. "Which means the title of bestest friend of Michael Townley belongs to me, once again."

"Oh Jesus Christ, T."

Amanda was already in the kitchen pouring herself a hearty glass of chilled white wine as Michael and Trevor entered. Michael shrugged off Trevor's arm and reached for the glass of whiskey he had poured what seemed like hours ago. Trevor's eyes bored into him. "You uh, want something to drink, bro?" Michael asked, lifting his glass.

"Oh, no, no, I'm fine, Mikey. I just really wanted to swing by; see how my best friend was doing after everything." Trevor paced out of the kitchen, through the dining room, living room, foyer, hallway and back into the kitchen. Michael downed his glass in one swig and opened the bottle again. "Seeing as the front door was locked, I came around back, to make sure things were alright, of course. Sweet Amanda here was just roasting out in the sun and I thought why not have a bit of sport, huh? Heheh." Trevor's chuckle continued and Michael held his glass to his lips for a moment's pause, feeling the burn on his lips slightly before downing that glass too. He could see Amanda's glass was nearing empty as well. Michael put down his glass and Trevor moved suddenly, closing the distance between the two of them in a deceptively quick instant. "Why'd you gotta lock the doors, the windows the _garage_, Mikey? Don't want me dropping by or something? Guy might begin to feel… unwelcome."

"I, it had nothing to do with you, T. Okay, maybe a little bit, but seriously, we lock the doors all the time. It's nothing new," Michael said, holding his hands up. Amanda had finished her sizable glass of wine.

"A lot of good the damn door did when those special forces guys came knocking," she laughed while opening the refrigerator to get more wine.

"Special forces?" Trevor asked; his eyes darting between the residents.

"Merryweather," Michael clarified.

"The fuck? The cock sucking mother fuckers came fucking here?"

"T, chill out, okay? It's over. And like I said, locked doors, good. Nothing to do with you, I mean, you know what I mean."

"Uh, huh," Trevor said, clicking his tongue and looking Michael up and down, not for the first time. The writhing ball of rage and energy that threatened to explode seemed to withdraw a bit, as his chest rose slower with calming breaths. "Alright, sugartits. Go back to your beauty rest, god knows you need it." Trevor waved his racket, almost hitting Michael with it as he walked towards the front door.

"Hey, fuck you too, bro," Michael replied.

"Don't think I didn't see through the window you snoozing and drooling all over your shirt," Trevor called back. Michael looked down at his shirt, pulling it away from his chest. Did he really drool…? "Ha!" Trevor kicked open the front door; Amanda cursed and Michael looked up just in time to see Trevor doing an odd little dance in the door way, pointing back at them. "And don't forget! I'm the best friend now! Ta-ta!"

"…The fuck just happened?"

"He climbed over the fucking fence and threw me, _and_ the lounge chair, in the god damn pool, after watching us sleep for a half an hour," Amanda half said half shouted.

"Fuck," Michael muttered. They both lapsed into silence for a moment, nursing their respective drinks and staring at the empty doorway. The door hung slightly crooked now. He'd have to fix that. Great. They both jumped as Jimmy thundered down the stairs and sauntered into the kitchen.

"What's with you two? You both look like shit," Jimmy asked as he opened the fridge and grabbed a soda. "Wait, I didn't just like, interrupt something important or gross did I?"

"Damn it, Jimmy, no. Just no," Michael replied, taking his whiskey with him into the living room. Amanda followed him, while Jimmy just shrugged, and took his soda upstairs. Michael plopped down in the spot he left earlier, putting his glass down with a plink and grabbing a cigar and his lighter. Amanda sat down on the other side of the couch and curled her legs up underneath her, clutching her wine glass with a death grip. Michael puffed a few times, igniting the cigar, then took a long drag, and exhaled. He twisted his head from side to side, trying to ease the tension in his neck, before turning to look at Amanda. "…Tennis?"

"I don't know. The fuck was I supposed to do, Michael? One moment I was napping in the sun the next I was in the pool getting yelled at to open the damn door."

"So you invited him to play tennis."

"Well no, he went on and on asking if we're trying to get rid of him and more of that unwelcome shit and… I don't know. It made sense at the time."

"So after he threw you in the pool you what? Got out, ran upstairs soaking wet, and changed into your tennis clothes?"

"Yes."

"Babe," Michael started. "Did _you_ unlock the door on your way in?"

Amanda stared at him for a moment, then stood up and bolted upstairs.

Michael puffed a few more times on his cigar, watching the smoke waft upwards and away from him.

"My God, my GOD, my key!" came Amanda's screech from upstairs, followed by a long stream of obscenities. Two more doors creaked open upstairs as the kids peered their heads out curiously.

Michael bit down on the cigar and whipped out his phone. He typed "LOCKSMITH" in the search bar and hit enter. He tongued the cigar he held between his lips thoughtfully, before turning his phone off and throwing it on the ground.

"Fuck it."


End file.
